


How the Greatest Fell

by written_in_blood



Series: 004, aka, the Good Doctor [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Jealous Q, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Reminiscing, pining Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 03:05:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13672956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/written_in_blood/pseuds/written_in_blood
Summary: James met 004 before he met John Watson. There was no way the man and the soldier were the same, not when you could see the divide so clearly between the jumper-clad warming brit and the assassin crack shot with a kill list larger than James' own. John Watson was a man built to fly and 004 was his wings.But if there was something James had learned in all his time in the field, its that every angel falls sooner or later.





	How the Greatest Fell

James didn’t hate 004. There was no logical reason to hate the man, he knew. It wasn’t like this new 004 was inexperienced in the field, rash or even uncooperative. In fact, it was the complete opposite.

 

The man standing before him was impeccably dressed, something James always appreciated, as he politely greeted each agent who gave him a second glance. Not that many did. Agents, especially those with a license to kill, went down easily with a large enough price on their head so a newbie wasn't a commodity.

 

He was the perfect agent, lacking a psychotic tick or trigger finger.

 

But he wasn’t John Watson.

 

John Watson was by far the most powerful man James had ever met. He was a kind soul, polite and well spoken. A small form wrapped in an oversized jumper and comfortable trackies, Watson hadn’t looked like much at all. There was nothing such a man could do that could be determined ‘bad’ besides maybe forgetting to turn in a library book by a day.

 

Stepping into the MI6 regulated safe house in a small town around the Serbian countryside, he was met with the scene of a small form sitting besides his Quartermaster. The jumper-bound soldier was sitting so still as if a robot ready to be turned on.

 

Then James had made a wrong move. His foot maybe an inch too forward or a lingering gaze, it didn’t matter. Watson had him on his back with pure murder in his eyes before James even could register the breeze made from his movement. Jumper whipping around him dramatically and pistol held so tightly, James feared for the grip’s wellbeing, Watson perched above him like an avenging angel.

 

“Stand down, Agent 004,” Llewellyn spoke with a laugh in his voice, watching the scene with amused eyes.

 

James knew that command and froze, labelling the stranger above him as ‘friend’ rather than ‘foe’. He took the opportunity to study the man, 004 as Llewellyn had referred to him, and was amazed with what he saw. 004, the hired gun, the assassin-spy, had been shocked into this John Watson like a flip of a switch so sudden that James was sure he imagined Watson’s fluffy existence in the first place.

 

This was a true soldier.

 

James was paired with 004 in increasingly growing intervals after their first meeting in Serbia and he didn’t mind it in the least when he began growing closer to the five foot ball of unbridled rage wrapped in god-ugly jumpers and rainbow coloured cotton scarves.

 

004 was a force to be reckoned with. This, James figured out pretty quickly after a failed mission in Czechoslovakia early in their partnership. Backup had been sent in the form of a minute group of greenies and as pissed as James was for this insult on his pride, he still fought to protect the boys that cowered from a well aimed bullet.

 

No matter the circumstances and no matter how hard the two double-ohs fought, one of the boys -Willie, James remembered his name was- took a bullet to the temple. The blazen forced that filled 004 then was unimaginable. The gang they had been hunting for the good part of a year was no match for the unleashed soldier and to this day, there was no file on that mission.

 

No one dared to write a word about what happened within the Cobras’ compound and it remained a blank spot in the official records.

 

James saw John afterwards in Medical. The man was sitting on a bloodied bed, his own and others' blood, staring off into space.  _ “His name was Willie Butcher,”  _ He had whispered and James had just barely heard him.

 

Having seen the man almost single handedly wipe out a gang of mercenaries, it was unbelievable to James how quickly 004 had become John Watson again.

 

_ “Yeah. Nice name, don’t you think, Watson? Do you think it would look better on marble or granite?”  _ John’s half-formed smile was enough for them then as they formed their unpredictable future in this boy’s death. Butcher, a greenie in line for the newly opened 009 position, had no family as expected of any agent so Watson and Bond buried the boy beside his parents in Scotland on their downtime leave.

 

John Watson was more dangerous than 004. The Good Doctor, the Q branch called him as he strolled through the desks. The only double-oh that didn’t cause the minions to cower or run for cover, John gained the respect of any person he crossed paths with if only with a smile. Llewellyn didn’t actively plan the malfunction of his weapons in the field, M didn’t yell at him as much as she did any other double-oh, all the female and even a couple brave male MI6 agents would flock to the man at the slightest indication of availability.

 

John Watson had those that didn’t particularly like 004 wrapped around his finger. There was something innately trustworthy about a jumper-clad family man, the image John Watson portrayed.

 

Then 004 was shot.

 

Every double-oh had taken bullets, knives, and various office supplies into their bodies through increasingly creative means so a gunshot wound was nothing new. But 004 took the wrong bullet to the one spot that invalidated 004 to a life of desk work.

 

And 004 dragged John Watson down with him.

 

James saw John as he cleaned out his room at HQ, the man’s hands split in objective. One searched out his few possessions and the other balanced all his weight on a hefty metal cane.

 

He remembered the day 004 was first ushered in his room, the pure apprehension on his face framing his excitement. John knew what he would become: nothing but a tool to be used, a gun to be fired at M’s command and it gave the boy life.

 

He remembered the day 004 was last ushered in his room, the pure apprehension on his face framing his sorrow. John knew what he became. The bullet was too straight to kill him in an honorable double-oh death and too skewed to heal properly enough for field work.

 

“Good luck out there, Watson, and don't let us down. We are counting on you to live the life we can't.” His last words to John were a promise, if only he would let it be. They both nodded to each other, Alec swearing quietly in the background in Russian. They had gone to see him off and it wasn't long before the two had started to become James Bond and Alec Trevelyan losing a friend rather than the heartless 006 & 007.

 

After all, they couldn't be soldiers forever. John proved that.

 

So now James was forced to team with 004. Not John Watson 004, not a jumper lover who knew how to make a cuppa with the sweetest milk. Not the soldier James had grown to respect and love like a brother.

 

No, this was a boy really. Anthony Forme, a brunette with green eyes and a solid handshake. John’s replacement was the worst they could have possibly received because this newbie was perfect. A good shot -not the crack shot John had been and when did they resort to referring to John in the past tense?- and a reigning smile unlike James’ smirk.

 

Alec liked the kid and it only hurt more to see how quickly Good Doctor became nothing more than a legend to be hidden in the shadows and whispered like a children’s bedtime story.

 

James came back to HQ afterwards with a gunshot wound and in a sour mood. During the mission, everything ran smoothly and somehow, that was worse than he could’ve expected. There was no easy banter between him and 004, no jokes over the easiest way to bleed out a captor, no memories to visit at a later date.

 

It was as if John didn’t exist anymore. It was only 004 and 007, no more John and James.

~

 

“Get some actual medical attention, you moron,” John joked, stuffing his medical bag of his tools once more as he moved to leave the bedroom. He had moved the man after makeshift surgery on the couch in front of the bloody British Government and James suspected that there was a reason other than the agent’s comfort. Maybe something to do with that  _ flatmate _ .

Seeing John Watson again was a breath of fresh air to say the least.

He was unsure as to how his presence would be taken, of course. After all, John moved on from MI6 and had a life -normal life- now. James Bond had just become an old chapter in John's book like Good Doctor had become a background whisper at HQ. But the man simply ushered him inside, past the  _ goddamn Ice Man _ , and to a used couch that had seen better day where the talented man took to stitching him up like old times.

“John?” James called and when the man froze at the door, white knuckles clenched around his old MI6 issued bag, he realized there was nothing to say. Yes, he wanted to say everything but nothing seemed right.

What do you say after something like that? Thank you for tending to my wounds from a job that was ripped out from under you? I am sorry that I could never contact you because you became civilian again?

Complete lack of communication, forced separation because of a well placed bullet. It was almost worse than mourning John, to see him with a real life after everything and once again, James was hit with the realization that his 004 didn't exist anymore.

“I know, James. I know.”

~Q~

 

Q was rudely interrupted from his project by a loud beep, looking across the dining table only to realize the noise was his text notification. The screen lit up and Q managed to catch a glimpse of the text.  _ 007 ICMFM. _

His head dropped to the table with a heavy thud as a groan of annoyance slipped past his lips. It hadn’t been too long since Q had met the agent and he was so close to succumbing to the urge of ripping out his fond black curls in his frustration over the mystery that was Bond.

The first time Q had gotten the ICMFM message, it had been confusing until a bloodied and bruised James stumbled through his flat’s front door, specialized alarm systems be damned. In Country, Missing From Medical, the code translated to or rather, Bond Was Being A Stubborn Prick And Would Rather Die Than Face a Doctor.

The code itself came four hours after an agent hadn't shown in Medical because of the time between touchdown and the agent reverting to ‘human’ (he hadn't quite been brave enough to confront 0014 over what he meant by  _ double-oh syndrome _ ), so James could be some condition between paper cut covered and dead.

Q was tired of James showing up at his door, covered in blood and stitched up with bobby pins and dental floss, muttering hate speeches about the cold tables in Medical. He had long since tried to find out where James had found his address or how he got past the hundreds of series of alarm systems.

The agent was slippery, unruly and had a habit of sowing himself up without any prior knowledge of medical sciences. One would think that after enough times practicing on himself, he would’ve gotten better but it seemed to Q that he had just gotten worse.

But now he was just confused when the agent slipped through his door -lock picked and alarms shut off, goddammit, Bond- because the man was injured, yes. That wasn’t what surprised Q.

“You didn’t go to medical,” he stated matter-of-factly the second the man threw himself, albeit carefully, onto the couch. The agent in question made a noncommittal noise and shifted so his stitches would sit properly.

James glanced down at the now not-pulling stitches as if considering them for a moment. Q knew the sign of a professional, perfectly formed and lined stitched knots all in the same size unlike how James usually dealt with his ‘problems’. Plus the fact it came in the form of true medical stitches, hospital brand and not dental floss, worried him. Had James gone to the hospital? Did he need to do damage control?

“Yeah, yeah. J was very much accommodating, though.”

The name, or rather letter, gave Q pause. J? There had been a J years back: medical department head, of course, but the man never liked James. Especially after James found out his real name -Theodore Branchton- and began using it around the other medical staff on the off chance he actually reported to the branch after a mission. But that was before Q had even been Q, when he was Quintin Haynes, brand new cyber criminal.

“J?”

James just shrugged in response.

“Bond, do I need to do damage control? Harass some doctors?” The younger MI6 agent questioned, feeling oddly put out. That twinge of  _ something  _ curled up in his stomach but he fought against it, deeming it too sentimental to be worth his time. After all, the Quartermaster did not  _ do  _ jealous.

James shook his head with a soft smile that caught Q off guard. That damned smile.

“Don’t harass my best friend.”

That response took Q aback. “Your best friend is 006,” he stated hesitantly, almost like a question.

James laughed, throwing his arm over the back of the couch as he fixed Q with his crystal blue eyes. “Alec could fight J over the title but I doubt they would ever even get in an argument long enough to start throwing punches; the bloody idiots are too polite. Besides, its more of a triangle than a two way street, Quartermaster.”

As if humanly possible, Q became more confused. A mutual acquaintance of both 006 and 007 going by a single letter with medical experience and steady hands, unfazed by the spy showing up out of the blue to be patched up after a particularly rough mission? Sounded like both a saint and a shadow.

“Does this ‘J’ have a position in MI6 or have any sort of clearance at all, or have you continued your wonderfully annoying habit of introducing yourself to ever passerby, effectively destroying every precaution MI6 has taken with secrecy?” Q knew it was that bloody sentiment talking but truth rang clear in his words.  _ Bond, James Bond  _ was a running joke through the Q-branch to anyone with enough guts to say it out loud, though they wouldn’t dare voice the humor to the man himself.

Q got another shrug. “J is the least of your concerns, Quartermaster. I am alive, properly attended to as you push so hard for. Look, I even have proper stitches and everything.” James waved a hand over his stomach with a sweeping gesture to the bullet wound.

Q cursed silently. James Bond’s disregard for the statue of secrecy was going to be the death of him if his stupid crush didn't get him first.

“Bond,” he started but quickly stopped, realizing the point was mute. James was already asleep. “Dear God.”

Q stood above the couch for a moment longer before retrieving his phone and beginning his work again, trying to ignore the twisting in his chest.

 


End file.
